"No Sam! We are not going back to the Roadhouse. Ever. End of story."
"Dean-"
"No!"
"Look, I know they're blaming us for something that Dad screwed up, but we need their help."
"Fuck that, and fuck them. We can do this on our own."
Sam sighed. "De-."
"Shut up, Sam."
"No! We need to know if anyone else knows anything about these creatures, or if they have ever come across them before! I have tried Dean, and frankly…the only things I've found are stats from a role-playing game. Nothing about how to kill them, or their weaknesses, or what exactly they are!"
Dean didn't answer, but the tic in his jaw and his whitened knuckles spoke volumes.
If only.
If only Ellen hadn't refused to help.
If only Jo hadn't told him to get the hell out and never come back.
If only they hadn't blamed him and Dean for their fathers' mistake.
Dean would still be alive.
Dean would be sitting here next to him, making fun of his hair again.
But they had, and Dean wasn't.
Sam pushed open the door and stepped into the roadhouse. Keeping his head down and not looking to either side, he stepped up to the bar and took a seat, noting the sudden silence.
He heard the footsteps approaching, and made no move to look to see who it was. He knew. He didn't have to see; he didn't have to hear the sharp intake of breath as she saw the blood and ashes covering his clothing. He even knew what she would say. In fact, he was counting on it.
"Sam, I don't know why you are here, but you'd best-"
And Sam spoke his first words in the three days since he had buried his brother.
"Dean's dead, Ellen."
With that, Sam looked up into Ellen's shocked face and stared at her until she flinched and looked away, unable to bear his gaze.
"And it's your fault."